


Cooking

by tatooedlaura



Series: Life, Part 2 [18]
Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 15:39:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12084084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatooedlaura/pseuds/tatooedlaura
Summary: When she's missing home and you're missing her ..





	Cooking

The next three days were a blur for Scully. She had to leave Mulder home with Maggie as well as the children, scared and scarred but attempting to front with a calm that gave them away as frightened of their own shadows and everything else in the world. The four parents couldn’t get home without paying exorbitant amounts of money and dealing with three days of layover/circuitous route travel so it was Sam, brave heart and soul, whom, that first morning after Scully went to work, spoke for the group, relaying the firm and utterly untrue message of ‘we are fine and we will see you when you get back.”

Maggie watched him deliver his lie to speakerphone-anxious parents, then hang up, tears shining but unfallen as he sniffed hard, turning to regard everyone shorter than him, “we’re gonna stop crying about our parents. They are on vacation and they need it so we’re gonna let them stay on it. Understand?”

Every one of them from four to eight nodded solemnly, wiping tears with small fists and sleeving running noses until they looked ready for the world again, Jake speaking first, “we should make dinner.”

So out of left field with that one that the rest agreed, moving Uncle Mudler bodily into the kitchen and making a list of foods they needed from the store. They searched cupboards and opened cabinets and debated courses and meats and sides and salads and desserts until they were all starving and drooling and desperate for sustenance. They ate PB&J sandwiches before Mulder and the older two trooped to the store, list in hand and concrete promises that they would not deviate without the sole and express permission of the other three by way of phone call.

Then they cooked, mashed, steamed, buttered, salted, baked and boiled until the entire house smelled delectable and Toby decided that Aunt Dana should come home right then so she could smell the food and eat with them. Mulder gently told him there was a good chance she wouldn’t be home for several days so he instead asked to call her and let her know what they’d made for dinner. It was then that he popped Toby up on the counter to look him square in the eye, as all men do, “if we call her right now and tell her we made pot roast and smashed potatoes and garlic bread, she will immediately quit her job and come home to dinner and eat it all and we will get none. How about we make her a plate and if she gets home tonight and you’re awake, you can help me heat it up for her; otherwise, she’ll have it whenever she gets here.”

Toby accepted this and nodded, sliding down to the floor and going to inform the rest of them that they had to save Aunt Dana a plate.

Mulder hung his head for a moment, hands firmly on the counter holding him, floor staring up cheerfully with its polished shine that defied the hundreds of feet that passed over it daily. Toby wasn’t the only one who wanted to call her.

&&&&&&&&&&

He was exhausted by the end of the evening, helping Maggie, bathing small children, telling non-scary stories to them all before finally getting them to remain in their own beds, upstairs and together, with bribes of stacked pancakes and bacon in the morning. One ear on the sleepers, he pulled open the sofa bed, then sat down, lacking will and energy to do more than stare at the wall for several minutes before finally losing the battle.

Picking up the house phone, he dialed her, wondering which Scully would answer.

“Hi.”

That threw him off immediately, “Scully?”

As she stood in the locker room, forehead against the cool metal of her temporary clothes keeper, looking down at her messy scrubs and stained shoes, “tell me again why I’m a doctor who works for the FBI?”

His voice, tired, strong, satin, soothing, “because you are you and love your job 99% of the time.”

Normally, she held it together just fine, tornadoes, flesh-eaters, homicidal cats, weirdest shit in the history of the world but that second in time, connected only by sound and not touch, she wavered, words cracked, syllables quavered, “I want a hug.”

He fought the urge to get in the car, muscles coiled to drive, foot already pressing the accelerator, “I can’t come down to give you one … I’m sorry.”

She could hear the anguish in his voice at not being able to give her what she asked and it made her feel a modicum better, knowing he would if he had any means possible, “it’s okay. I know you can’t leave right now.” Turning, she sat on the wooden bench between rows, “tell me something good from today instead.”

Mulder, in racking brain fashion, took a moment to unearth something, anything, to make her smile, “Hannah discovered that if you tickle Toby just as he’s breathing in, he belches.”

Her laugh echoed, bouncing off silent walls, giving her enough of a boost not to cry the rest of her life away, “how did she discover that?”

“Total accident. I finally had to make them stop before Toby booted all over the countertop.”

“Booted?”

“Puked, vomited, heaved, tossed cookies, I’m branching out with my verbs, don’t fence me in.”

“Did you give them all hugs from me?” She craved any news of home, anything not related to burned flesh and dead friends, “did you get them all to sleep upstairs or are they down with you still?” Mulder answered, continuing the conversation for another ten minutes until Scully interrupted him, “hang on.” Coming back on the line a second later, “that was the tech saying the room is clean and …”

Her trailing off told him the next victim was on the table and she had to go back to work, “I love you and I’ll call you tomorrow morning. Maybe bring you some breakfast if you’d like.”

The thought of food turned her stomach and wincing, “how about another phone call if I’m not home yet? I don’t know that I can handle actual food right now.”

“Maybe I’ll just bring you some more crackers and yogurt?”

She’d packed a cooler full of them that morning, eating only when her body told her it was calories or collapse, “I’d like that and I love you, too.”

He wanted to ask who she’d identified so far but his heart couldn’t take it, not this late in the evening so he left it hanging there, the question floating aimlessly in the atmosphere, to be plucked down and answered sometime in the future.

Scully heard the unasked, “g’night, Mulder.”

“’Night, Scully.”

&&&&&&&&&

He didn’t sleep, listening for nightmares from all corners of the house, anticipation driving away rest, a blurry-eyed, clumsy Mulder welcoming the day and somewhat better rested children at 7am.

He burned the pancakes.

He undercooked the bacon.

He spilled the milk and dropped the plates.

He tripped the Sam.

He elbowed the Betsy.

He felt so bad he gave them all brownies for dessert and vowed to take them to the movies for double features and extra large popcorns.

Sam patted him on the back and told him to go take a nap, that he would get the dishes done and after Maggie volunteered to spearhead any and all activities for the next few hours, Mulder crashed on Scully’s old bed upstairs, Sam’s presently, snoring before he hit the sheets.

&&&&&&&&&

That second night, around eight, with children tired and yawning, with Maggie insisting and Betty prodding, he packed up food and headed out into the night.

Scully sat quietly against the wall, hidden from view, head back, eyes closed, nearly feeling bad about her television doctor cliché posture and expression but nearly wasn’t enough and since she opted not to give a shit about her appearance after 48 hours straight of identifying bodies, she remained in the dark, wallowing in misery-filled solitude.

Until large, gym shoe ensconced feet appeared in front of her, shoes at the end of skinny legs and low-riding white socks. Crouching Mulder came into view a moment later, stack of Tupperware settling on the floor, hand moving to grip her knee, eyes sad, worried, concerned, take your descriptive pick, whispering into her forehead as he leaned into her, “the kids made you dinner.”

That, of all things, made her cry. Just one solitary tear but still, she swiped angrily at it, reminding Mulder of her nieces and nephews, “they made me dinner?”

“You didn’t get to eat what they made yesterday so they cooked again today and said I had to bring it to you. Maggie and Betty joined in and the pressure was too much and here I am. I left your mom in charge with Betty as backup so I imagine there’ll be a card party going in about 10 minutes.” He could see the second tear revving up at the thought of home and ignoring food and passers-by, he sat down beside her, pulling head to shoulder, lips grazing hair, remaining against her, warm breath into crown of head, “I’m so sorry I couldn’t come earlier.”

Shifting, she disregarded the cold tile and scooted until she was lying with her head on his thigh, dirty floor be damned, “I’m so tired, Mulder.”

Hand now on shoulder, he rubbed his thumb over the roundness, trailing her collar bone every so often, “do you want to go find a couch or something to lay down on?”

No answer came.

And he sat patiently … unmoving … unruffled … unapologetic … to the few weary technicians and personnel that walked quietly by, several whispering offers of a futon down the hall or a spare pullout bed but he declined, murmuring back that they were just fine.


End file.
